One fascinating memories of the 50s was the the crying in silence… then, young people like me, were totally submissive to parents, who seemed to be our earth god… for we have to feel so infinitely indebted for being sent to good schools, while they sweat to fill their financial pockets.;educationseemed and believed to be the only gateway to successful future during this era; my parents expected a top notch, a summa, a valedictorian at all times. I was 16age, i remember having layers upon layers of dreams, fantasies, imaginations, occupying my 24/7 thoughts… these were infatuationcrushes, fantasy of love, fantasy of riches, of actors, of beauty contests, besides the obsession to be top amongst the grades. I avoidedpublic complaints, on the contrary, i found cry as my most consolablefriend when things got so difficult, a negative result then, was taboo… it hadto be triumph at all times!

i weep not… i cry

a painful water drop in silence…

not of resignation nor helplessness

but of weariness boredom suppression.

cricket’s chorus song

impedes my sighing pains

i cry to myself to win

the battle of triumph,

through longevity of my strength.

Now, this 21st century, parents, the Dads and the Moms, are on the receiving end of ‘cry’; the children they love, cared and educated, now far exceed the attainment of triumphs; the parents are subdued, finding themselves in the ‘cry of silence’. In some cases, the children would dare utter loud languagesagainst the Dad and the Mon without a glint of hesitation. This parent’s precious precious silent-tears, is what i would call ‘self-pity’… self-pity because, they are expectant of gratefulness from their children, which i would definitely not be in agreement. As a mom myself, to see to hear to feel, the triumphs of my kids, would instead make me cry in joy… i never would expect any repayment of gratefulness or material gifts for whatever i have done for whoever… and should i get some disrespect from them, i would have to review why. I would conclude that perhaps, “i had been wrong in the upbringing of my children or perhaps i have misread people”.

cry is a gift

it releases pain

it opens a new vision

for a renewed strength

finds my new me

my independent moi

opens my eyes

a wider field of interest

i start to love me!

A forsaken lover would shed a silent tear as being magnified in music like the song‘CRY’ by Johnnie Ray:

“if your sweetheart sends a letter of goodbye

it’s no secret, you feel better, if you cry…….”

or the song by Diana Krall, ‘Cry Me A River’:

“now you say, you’re lonely

you cried the whole night through

well, you can cry me a river,

cry me a river

i cried a river over you.

you drove me…

nearly drove me out of my head

while you never shed a tear

remember, i remember all that you said…….”

What is ‘crocodile tears’?

actors in movies cry

reliving the reality

of roles they play.

lies relived as reality

are crocodile tears.

this kind of tears

are mere acts

that involves not

a heart.

Crying, an involuntary release of emotion, touched and moved by a situation like death of ones child, of a parent, or some devastation of properties, of wars, of massacres, or victim of assaults, etc., is in fact a wonderful feeling of unloading heaviness of heart…and though it may prove to be a painful struggle, to cry does not lessen, degrade, insult, my existential being.

If a simple being… a tree, though being stripped of all its green leaves in autumn; chilling the silence of loneness during winter; would gladly and willingly survive till it gets to spring, why can’t i, with all the gifts of intellects, talents, movements, not excel it?…Am i that weakling… that i easily melt drown submerge like a poor rat? Is a being like a tree stronger than i??? __ade c.

It is the pleasure of text, the overflowing command of words that can make a mountain dances;makes violent waves to appear like making love to a rocky mount; makes wind to sound like a love song… texts that postulate bliss, rather than a philosophy, a method, a research, a pedagogy. It has a very faint institutional future: its structure assumes nothing…it is the art of poeticizing a simple sentence, “I have two hands, the left and the right” intoa simulative mysteriousseductive phrases… the Unconsciousness of the Unconscious effectively renders a poet’s work into a level of excellence!__ade c.

those lovely days

those misty breaths

those loving moans

such intoxicating gowns of joy

consumed wrapped me

created in me the empty silence of silence

pin-pricked, colonized haunted taut-ed

lacerated my soul and bled me

to an eternity of deafening shouts.

My ghost pocket traces emotion and passion, dominate, shadow, line, my linguistic field, the truths about my joy happiness pleasure; the joy’s temporal nature; like my daughter takes me out for groceries… the happiness’s ten-seconds of thrill; like getting my doctorate degree… a pleasure’s moment of bliss, that second of only me matters.

why, ahhhhhhhhh… my endless whys… why do people, including moi, enjoy the wind the rain the moon the stars the rainbow the sea the mountain, such strings of wonders. __but also man’s creations like biographies novels poetries paintings fashions jewelleries, and most extremely, our ownselves?_ade c.

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